The idea of placemats gracing an outdoor table may strike some as a touch too precious, a bourgeois affectation better suited to stuffy dining rooms and starched napkins. “Let the good old oilcloth suffice for the backyard barbeque,” they’ll scoff, “a picnic, after all, should be a carefree affair.”
But I say, my friend, why should a breath of fresh air preclude a touch of refinement? Is the rugged individualist, the man of the open road, any less deserving of a well-dressed table? Imagine, if you will, a sturdy picnic table, draped in a crisp checkered cloth. But instead of the usual paper plates and waxy cups, each setting boasts a woven placemat, a bulwark against spilled lemonade and errant potato salad. Perhaps a cheerful red gingham, or a woven seagrass mat, hinting at exotic locales and daring adventures.
And for those who favor a touch of the dramatic, consider the impact of sleek black or bold geometric placemats against the backdrop of a lush garden. Why, even the clink of a fork against a ceramic plate takes on an air of sophistication, a symphony of sound and texture to rival the most carefully orchestrated dinner party.
Let the neighbors cling to their paper plates and plastic forks, I say, but for the discerning few, for those who appreciate the finer points of life, no matter the setting, a placemat is a small touch that speaks volumes. It whispers of a life lived with intention, of finding beauty in the everyday.